Not This Tide
by ThorneofAcre
Summary: Death of a loved one leaves the strongest of men reeling in shock and denial. This is my take on how d'Artagnan slowly learns to deal with his father's death and accept it. Filled for the kinkmeme prompt: Four times d'Artagnan reacted badly to being called son and one time he didn't. Disclaimer: I don't own the boys.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Yea, another story. I should stop hanging around the kinkmeme in what little free time I have. This is in response to a prompt at the bbcmusketeerkink at Dreamwidth, (If you don't know it existed, go check it now and fill some of the delicious prompts please.)

**Spoilers**: General spoilers for all Episodes of season 1 so far. It kind of starts out from a little after the pilot and goes on form there. The entire thing isn't written yet, but I'll probably finish tonight.

* * *

Chapter 1.

"Come on, I've seen six year olds parry better than that with little wooden swords!" Aramis laughed, clearly enjoying himself. He had one hand behind in back in his usual gentleman fashion and under normal circumstances d'Artagnan would have been his match in a sword fight.

But the young Gascon was decked out in full body leather armor. Three weeks of hanging around the garrison had finally led to someone questioning what exactly his plans were and Aramis had decided to 'touch up' his sword skills. The first condition had been the armor.

Moving wasn't as easy as Aramis' graceful effortless dancing made it seem. D'Artagnan was sweating profusely, despite the chilly air and the added unfamiliar weight was slowing his reflexes by a fraction of a second. With a swordsman as skilled as Aramis, that insignificant delay could mean the difference between winning the match and finding himself in the latest rain puddle at the older musketeer's feet.

"And I have seen peacocks with less pomp than you!" D'Artagnan shouted in response, blocking the latest attack barely in time to stop Aramis' sword from being introduced to his neck. The musketeer wasn't holding anything back.

"Now _that_'s just mean." Aramis grinned.

D'Artagnan pushed back and let loose a series of swift precise blows, aiming not to disarm but to distract Aramis. The musketeer countered each easily though, a wide smile on his face telling d'Artagnan exactly how much he was enjoying this. D'Artagnan smiled in return when Aramis saw the kick at his knee coming and got out of the way. It was exhilarating to fight someone with Aramis' level of skill.

Aramis drew back for a minute. Both the men circled each other, moving in a slow arc, watching. They had quite an audience gathered around. Athos and Porthos stood at a distance seemingly engaged in conversation though it was obvious that their attention was fixed on the dueling duo. A few of the other musketeers too had stopped their own training to watch and d'Artagnan could make out the form of the captain on the balcony from the corner of his eye.

Aramis must have sensed his wandering attention for he attacked, lithe as a snake, aiming for d'Artagnan's left side. D'Artagnan's quickly stepped aside to block his weaker side and met Aramis' sword with his own, dangerously close to his face. Aramis leaned in and smiled. "Your footwork has improved considerably."

D'Artagnan pushed him back, attacking before Aramis had the chance to correct his balance. Aramis deflected his attack, leaned backwards and feigned an attack to d'Artagnan's side, waited for him to stumble trying to block an attack that wasn't coming and kicked out his knee when he did. With a flick of his wrist, d'Artagnan's sword went flying.

D'Artagnan glared at Aramis' grinning face looking down at him. "You wait till I get a hang of this armor. I'm going to kick _your_ ass into the mud."

Aramis laughed, "Like that day would ever come." He held out a hand for the Gascon which d'Artagnan took and Aramis helped him up. The musketeer threw a hand around his friend's shoulder and the two started walking towards the armory. "You have to learn to not underestimate your opponent. Your confidence borders on carelessness and that can get you killed."

D'Artagnan grunted. "A lifetime of sparring with farm boys of no skill might have gotten to my head."

Aramis tuned and studied him seriously for a second, before grinning. "Yea it does seem a little bloated."

"Hey!" d'Artagnan shoved the man away and Aramis laughed.

"You keep training with us and we'll beat the overconfidence out of you before you know it."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "I'm sure knowing that you have my best interests at heart would make washing the mud stains out of my breeches easier."

"You know me, always happy to help." Aramis touched the brim of his hat in a flamboyant gesture and tried to ruffle d'Artagnan's hair but the Gascon quickly moved away. "Don't you worry, before you know it, you'll be good enough to actually land a blow on either one of us son."

D'Artagnan froze.

The smile disappeared from his face. His vision narrowed and he abruptly shrugged off the arm draped across his shoulders.

Aramis turned to face him, a frown on his face. "Is something the matter? Are you hurt?" He studied the boy carefully, taking in the sweat damped hair and flushed cheeks. What caught his attention however were the eyes which weren't meeting his. They looked so utterly empty and closed off that Aramis almost shuddered. He reached out to place a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder but d'Artagnan shook his head. Brusquely, he sidestepped Aramis and started walking away.

"D'Artagnan, wait!" Aramis called out, but the young man only quickened his pace.

Aramis stood in the middle of the courtyard, staring at the Gascon walking away, confusion etched on his face. Athos walked over. "What happened?"

Aramis tore his eyes away from where d'Artagnan had disappeared round the corner after a few seconds of silence. He looked at Athos, his brow furrowed and he offered an eloquent shrug. "I… honestly have no idea."

* * *

_As always, I would love to hear your thoughts._

_The title has been taken from Rudyard Kipling's poem My Boy Jack. It is my absolute favorite interaction between a father and a son in the entire world. If you don't know what I'm talking about, Rudyard Kipling was a poet (among other things) whose son went to fight in the war. He wrote the poem after his son died. It makes me cry every time I read it._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Athos turned the street corner, not really paying attention to his surroundings. He knew the way to the house he was looking for like the back of his hand, having been there several times. He weaved around the merchants carrying basketfuls of their wares to their shops and men and women haggling at the stalls. He had forgone his uniform for a simple shirt and trousers, not wanting to draw attention while in these parts of Paris. The area was just a little above the Court of Miracles in regards to the status of the people who lived there and they did not take kindly to musketeers. Most of them blamed the king and his abhorred taxes for their impoverished state.

His duty did not allow him to have such an opinion, but Athos was not a man who would sit by and not do something about a problem if he could help it. As he walked through the market, several people recognized him and waved in greeting. Athos simply nodded back, eyes searching for a familiar inseparable duo of brothers. He spied a small kid of about seven years of age trying to climb a precariously balanced cart, and walked over.

"You shouldn't have to climb up there to get your neck broken. I can just tell your mother you tried, and she'll break it for you."

The kid scowled but stopped eyeing the cart and turned around. "Mama won't let Frederic come out, and I'm bored."

Athos stared down at the kid who had a petulant frown marring his innocent features. "And what exactly did that brother of yours do to warrant such a dreadful fate?"

Françoise grinned at Athos. "He punched George! It was great."

Resisting the urge to smile at the pride in the little boy's voice at his brother's victory over the much hated George, Athos looked at him sternly. "What have I told you about fighting?"

Françoise looked at the ground sheepishly. "To not, unless the situ- _sitution_ was very direy."

Athos nodded grimly. "And what was so _direy_?" he asked with a completely straight face.

"He tried to hit Marie!" The statement was full of indignant anger that Athos understood all too well. Marie was the little four year old sister of the twins and both of them adored her to bits.

Athos pretended to think for a moment and then knelt so he was level with the big blue eyes staring at him, pleading for him to understand. "Well, in that case, how about we go to your brother and offer him our congratulations?"

"But, but Athos, you aren't angry?"

Athos smiled and shook his head. "If anyone dares to harm your little sister, I would say the _situation_ is _dire_ enough for you and your brother to teach them a thing or two about manners."

The grin which broke out on the little boy's face was nothing short of precious as he delightedly threw his arms around Athos' neck. Laughing the musketeer picked the kid up, and started walking towards Françoise's house, feeling all the tension of the week ebbing away as he listened to his incessant chatter.

Athos had once known the boy's father. Roberto had worked at the garrison as a stable hand until he had fallen ill with the sweating sickness and died, leaving a helpless widow with three infant children. The musketeers had all pitched in whatever they could to help the young mother, but it had been Athos who had found out where she lived. Since then, every week he would try to visit, do the odd chores around the house, get the groceries from the market and spend some time with the boys. They wouldn't know what it was to have a father but Athos was determined to not let them grow up without having someone to look up to. And it wasn't completely selfless on his part: just for a few hours every week, he got to forget all about the demands of his duty and the burdens of his past.

Athos was busy trying to keep up with Françoise's detailed narration of how Frederic had completely floored George for bad mouthing their mother and trying to hit their sister, as they walked and he almost missed the familiar form of d'Artagnan standing at the doorway of a house, talking to a woman and handing her a bundle wrapped up in paper. Athos was momentarily confused before he saw d'Artagnan pull out a piece of paper and jot something down, before taking the coins that the woman offered. So the young Gascon had taken to making Constance's deliveries for her, Athos thought with a smile, shaking his head. It really was hopeless how much the boy was head over heels for the married woman.

Not to mention, sad.

Having concluded his business at that house, d'Artagnan started walking away and Athos decided to let him be. The man obviously had more packages to deliver and Athos wouldn't want to waste any of his time. Besides he really wasn't looking forward to answering any questions about what he was doing here himself. Having known the Gascon for only a short month, Athos had no desires to lay bare his secrets to him.

D'Artagnan continued onwards, stopping at a few more houses and Athos followed at a distance, Francois' house being in the same direction. He rounded another corner and after a few minutes Athos reached there as well. But he stopped walking at the sight before him. A group of five Red Guards had blocked d'Artagnan's way. Athos quelled his first instinct to help the young man out, simply because he wanted to punch a few of the Cardinal's obnoxious men if nothing else, but he held himself back.

He had always found that watching a man fight was often an efficient way of gauging his character.

"D'Artagnan is it?" Athos was surprised to see Trudeau himself in the group. The captain usually let his lackeys do the street fighting for him, too concerned with staying in the Cardinal's good graces to put his neck out like that. "I had been wanting to talk to you for quite some time now."

D'Artagnan stared at him, head tilted to one side. "I can't imagine why."

"You've been spending a lot of time at the musketeer garrison lately."

"So what if I am?"

"Word is you want to join them?"

"I don't see what that has anything to do with you." D'Artagnan seemed incapable of giving a straight answer. Athos smiled, impressed. The boy in his arms fidgeted a little, trying to make out what the scene that had taken Athos' interest so completely was about. Athos hushed him with a hand on his back.

"See that man over there?" Athos whispered, gesturing towards d'Artagnan. Francoise nodded. "He's a friend of mine. Let's see if the situation becomes dire enough for us to intervene, shall we?"

Francoise' face lit up with delight. "Does that mean you are going to fight the bad men?" Athos grinned at him.

"Only if I have to."

Trudeau had started looking mildly annoyed. "I want you to consider joining the Red Guards instead. With your age and skills, it won't take you long to get noticed by the Cardinal himself. Then you would be working for the second most powerful man in all of France."

Athos could make out a crease in d'Artagnan's brow. The Gascon stroked his chin thoughtfully for a second before straightening. "Or I could stay exactly where I am, join the musketeers and work for the _foremost_ powerful man in France, the king himself."

The body language of the soldiers surrounding their captain changed immediately. One of them went so far as to bark out a short laugh. A glance from Trudeau silenced him. "It isn't easy getting into the musketeers. A month has already gone by and there has been no word of a commission yet. We are welcoming you readily into our ranks and once you've proven your loyalty to the cardinal, you will have nothing to want for."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I'm afraid I will have to decline monsieur. With all due respect, I'd rather take my chances with the musketeers." Athos felt an unfamiliar surge of pride as he noticed the air of finality around the young Gascon as he threw the captain's offer back in his face.

"Oh stop fooling yourself, lad!" Trudeau snarled, losing all remaining patience. "How exactly do you intend to get into the musketeers? You have no one to sponsor your training, what do you expect to do, keep licking their boots in the hopes that someone might notice you?"

Athos' eyes narrowed. That was uncalled for. He could make out the sudden stiffness in d'Artagnan's posture. Indeed when the man spoke next, his voice betrayed his barely contained anger at Trudeau's words. "I have told you my decision. Now move out of my way. I don't believe we have anything more to discuss."

He tried to move past the guards but one of them blocked his way, pushing him back slightly.

"Our business would be done when the captain says it is," the soldier, a big man who barely fit into his uniform, growled.

"You're making a mistake boy." Trudeau tone had become civilized again. "Your chances of making it into the musketeer's ranks are slim to none. You have no family, nothing to your name. They don't entertain many farm boys from Gascony when they can get the sons of nobility to join them."

Athos could tell that d'Artagnan was barely holding himself in check. He had his fists clenched into tight fists, his feet were apart bracing for a fight and his face was clouded with rage. "Another word about my family and you will regret it."

A smarter man would have taken the statement for the warning it was that they were crossing the line and backed off. But then, Athos thought, none among the Red Guard were famous for their intellect, their captain least so. Trudeau scoffed. "What family? The uncle in Gascony who's taken over your farm or the non-existent brothers?" Several of the soldiers laughed. Trudeau had a nasty smirk on his face that Athos wanted to punch off. "Or is it the father that you couldn't save from getting killed?"

D'Artagnan growled and in one swift movement had grabbed Trudeau by the collar. "Don't you dare take his name in front of me. It was _your_ captain who murdered him, you utter one more word and I will make sure you pay for it."

Trudeau shook off d'Artagnan's hold and pushed him back. The surrounding soldiers started closing in on the Gascon who stood with his fists raised, not looking away from Trudeau's smiling face.

"It seems like we've upset the lad, boys. He doesn't want to talk about poor dead daddy. You were lucky Gaudet killed him when he did. At least he isn't around to see what a colossal failure you are." The soldiers jeered and Trudeau smiled. "You want to fight us? You might be an illiterate farm boy but surely even you can count. It's five against one boy. You might be good, but you aren't that good."

"You mean five against _two_," Athos called out. His voice rang through the alleyway and he strode forward easily, coming to a stop at d'Artagnan's side. "You think you can take me in a fight Trudeau?"

D'Artagnan had spared him a single surprised glance before turning his attention back to the soldiers, who had started fidgeting on Athos' arrival.

"This is none of your concern Athos. Stay out of it," Trudeau said, a small note of uncertainty entering his tone.

Athos pretended to consider it for a second before shrugging. "See that's where you're wrong. When you threaten on of _my_ men, it very much becomes my concern," Athos paused to let his words sink in. "Now, I'm sure word of this won't reach back to Captain Treville and the Cardinal, but are you willing to bet on that?"

Trudeau seemed torn for a moment before immediately gesturing for his men to back off, just as Athos had predicted. "Come on, men." He turned towards d'Artagnan, who was still fuming with anger. "Don't think we are going to make you another offer boy."

D'Artagnan scoffed. "I'm glad the message seems to have sunk in," he said through clenched teeth.

With one last look of disgust, Trudeau turned and walked away, his men following behind him.

Athos watched them go, unsure of how to handle the still very much enraged Gascon. He turned towards the young man who was glaring at the backs of the retreating soldiers but before he could say anything, d'Artagnan spoke.

"You shouldn't have intervened. I could have taken them all. They would have deserved it."

Athos studied him, not answering until d'Artagnan turned to glare at him instead when the soldiers disappeared around another corner. "I'm sure you would have, and I know they did." Athos placed a hand on his shoulder. "But word would have gotten to the captain and you would have gotten arrested for illegal dueling."

"I don't care!" D'Artagnan seemed surprised at his own vehement shout. He shook off the hand, turning away slightly and looking at the ground, blinking furiously. "The things he said about… He shouldn't be able to get away with them."

Athos nodded, not knowing how to reply. He turned away slightly, offering the young man the chance to rub away the tears from his eyes discreetly. "Don't let it get to you son. They were wrong. Your father won't be disappointed in you."

D'Artagnan turned towards him, all his previous anger back. He raised a finger in warning. "_Don't call me that_! You know nothing about my father, so you don't get to tell me what he would or wouldn't feel."

Athos stared at him silently, and after a moment d'Artagnan's shoulders slumped and he let his hand fall. "I'm… I'm sorry. It's not your fault, you didn't deserve that." He turned away, a tear falling from his eyes. "I have a habit of making a mess of everything it seems," he said bitterly.

"D'Artagnan, listen to me - …"

"I really need to get these to their owners Athos." D'Artagnan cut him off midsentence, gesturing at the bundled up clothes lying nearby. "It's getting late. I should go."

He picked up the bundles and quickly started to walk away. Athos made to follow but was stopped by a tiny hand slipping into his own. He looked down to find a wide eyed Françoise staring up at him.

"Your friend is sad." The little boy observed perceptively, glancing at d'Artagnan walking away. Athos knelt in front of him.

"He is. He lost his father a while ago." Athos told him.

"Oh." The boy's face fell. "I lost papa too. And sometimes I get sad also. But then I look at Frederic and it doesn't feel so bad then."

Athos smiled at the kid, though his heart clenched for the kid. "You're a very strong boy, Françoise. Your papa would have been proud of you."

Françoise grinned at him widely before tugging at his hand. "Come on, let's go to Fredrick and tell him how you scared the bad men away from your friend!"

Athos laughed, and allowed himself to be pulled behind the excited boy, wishing d'Artagnan could be as young as Françoise. Children were a lot easier to handle and comfort.

With him, Athos knew it would take a lot more time.

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_As usual, I would love to hear your thoughts._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** So have you noticed how the first episode very definitely takes place in winter? What with the torrential rain and the snow and everything? And then in the second episode they are celebrating Easter? So they had quite a time jump on the show. Which probably explained why d'Artagnan seemed so fine with losing his dad by the second episode. So this chapter kind of takes place before the second episode and after the first one.

**Disclaimer**: Do people actually say this anymore? Seriously if I had owned the Musketeers, they wouldn't have gone on break for an entire year. :(

* * *

All of them had noticed.

It was hard not to when d'Artagnan rushed back into a burning building on the owner's wail that he would lose all the money he had been saving up for his daughter's dowry in the blaze, to retrieve it. Or when he faced off three heavily armed men alone to defend a woman they had been trying to have their way with. Or when he went into every battle, half cocked.

Aramis had been the first to notice, but he had shaken it off, refusing to believe _that_ of the young man. He was foolish and impetuous, both qualities driving him to prove himself. That was all.

Porthos wasn't too far behind in catching up. The boy had too many near brushes with death than could be considered normal. But he wished to join the musketeers, and if there was anyone who knew how much a man with no prospects or noble name backing him up needed to work to get noticed and earn his commission. The Lord above knew, he _knew_.

Athos was the last to notice. He had taken pains to distance himself from the young man who so obviously needed someone to look up to. The lad would be better off finding his mentor in Porthos, or even Aramis. It took him time but once Athos saw, he knew immediately what d'Artagnan was trying to do.

Athos was no stranger to suicidal bouts of courage. It took time, but the desire to throw away once life wore off.

They noticed, but they thought nothing of it. True they had to keep an eye on him, make sure there was one of them covering his back which he had so recklessly left open to attack in a duel, one of them to reign him in when his temper would ensure he rubbed heads with the wrong sort and keep him from losing his head and life in a battle.

But they knew it couldn't continue. It was getting worse, not better and it had to be stopped.

The final straw came when they were sent on a mission to find out what a noble suspected of treason was planning. The information had been brought by one of the Captain's spies and the courtier in question being of a prestigious and esteemed family could not be brought to justice or even publicly accused without definite proof.

The three of Treville's finest men were dispatched to find out what they can about the matter and d'Artagnan had tagged along. Two months in and everyone had stopped asking what he was doing with them. Wherever they went, he simply followed.

It had turned quite useful too when on realizing that the man was likely to recognize any of the three musketeers, having seen them in attendance at court before, it turned out that d'Artagnan ended up being the one who sneaked into the duke's manor through the servant's entrance.

His job had been reconnaissance, nothing else. Athos had given him strict orders to go in, talk to the servants, engage no one and find out if there was any truth at all to the rumors. He was to be out of the manor in about three hours, which was why when seven hours later a bloodied and shaken up d'Artagnan was led out by the duke's men to the waiting musketeers who had been on the verge of launching a full frontal attack, Athos lost it.

They rode quickly to the nearest inn and Aramis looked him over as he told them in bits and pieces how it had been the duke's brother who had been gathering a force, who had tried to overthrow his own brother as Lord of the manor and whom d'Artagnan had struck down. The Duke had promised to publicly denounce his brother in court and honor the musketeers responsible.

The mission was done.

Athos couldn't have cared less. He waited until Aramis had cleaned the boy up and bandaged the nasty cut on his torso before walking up to him.

"You will take a horse and you will go back to Gascony."

Aramis and Porthos recognized his tone and backed away instantly. D'Artagnan though, not having known him long enough to realize his outward calm was a prelude to much violence, looked at him, confused. "And why would I do that?"

Athos grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "What were your orders?"

D'Artagnan had the sense to look away. "I was to find out information and report back." He looked at the older man's face, seeing the anger brimming in his eyes. "But Athos, there was no time! The man attacked and I had to –"

"You had to _what_?" Athos shouted. "Protect the duke? Take down an entire rebellion yourself? See the mission through all on your own? What did you _have_ to do, d'Artagnan?"

"I'm sorry."

Athos growled. "I don't need your apologies! I need your obedience." He let the boy go and turned away. "And if I don't have that then you might as well leave."

D'Artagnan stared at the man's back. He had just taken care of a mission all by himself and Athos was asking him to _leave_? "Athos, please. Give me another chance. I…" He looked at Aramis and Porthos for help. The former shook his head and the latter turned away.

Athos sighed. "Why?"

D'Artagnan stared at him incredulous. "It was a first mistake Athos! You can overlook it, I promise, from now on, I would follow whatever you say to the letter."

Athos shook his head and turned, his expression an unreadable mask. "That is not what I meant. You want to become a musketeer?" D'Artagnan nodded immediately. "Why?"

He opened his mouth to answer. "I...-" Nothing came to mind. He knew he wanted to become a musketeer. But he had never given much thought as to _why_.

Athos nodded as if he had been expecting the lack of answer. He walked towards d'Artagnan. "We all fight for a reason. What's yours?"

D'Artagnan gulped. "I, uh… I don't know," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

"I suggest you find one then, if you want to return back with us. Loyalty, patriotism, love, justice, hell I don't care if you do it for the money. Otherwise you can ride back to your town and live the rest of your life there." He came closer until his face was bare centimeters away from the younger man's. "For right now, you fight_ only to die_. And the next time you go into battle with that on your mind, I swear to God, I _will_ run you through myself." He raised a hand to and the boy flinched only for Athos to clutch his shirt tightly. "If I am to have you die on my watch, I might as well kill you myself."

Aramis looked at him, shocked. "Athos!"

Athos did not take his eyes off d'Artagnan's. "I'm giving you till morning to decide."

D'Artagnan nodded and Athos backed off. Porthos walked over to where the older man was standing as Aramis fussed over d'Artagnan checking if Athos' rough handling hadn't messed up his dressings. Porthos lay a hand on Athos' shoulder. "A little harsh, wasn't that?"

Athos shook his head. "He needed it. He…" He turned to look at Porthos and the taller man was surprised to see the anxious desperation in his eyes. "He could have died!"

Porthos nodded. "But what if he chooses to leave?"

"Then so be it. At least he'll live."

The next morning, they found the Gascon tending to his horse as they entered the stables. The sight sent a pang through Athos but he did not let his disappointment show. He had meant to get through to the young man, not push him away. Still, if he wanted to leave, Athos would not stop him. "You've made up your mind then?"

"I have." D'Artagnan left the saddle alone and walked over to where the other three were gathered. He looked at them in turn. "With my father's death I had lost everything." He faced Athos. "I thought getting revenge would help, but after Gaudet's death all I felt was… emptiness."

There were tears in his eyes and d'Artagnan blinked them away. He took a deep breath and went down on one knee in front of Athos. "I've never met finer men than you three. Being with you lot makes me feel as if I'm not alone anymore. If you would allow me, I would be honored to serve alongside you."

Athos bent immediately, grasping the younger man's shoulders and lifting him to his feet again. "To fight for the sake of brotherhood is one of the best reasons a musketeer could have. We would be delighted to have you join us, son."

Porthos smiled at d'Artagnan but Aramis looked between d'Artagnan and Athos, alarmed.

D'Artagnan's eyes filled with tears that spilled over his cheeks. He tried to express his gratitude but a choked sob tore through instead. He ducked his head, lashes glistening with tears and Athos placed a hand on his shoulder. For a second it seemed that he would shrug it off, but then d'Artagnan closed the distance between them and latched onto Athos.

A little baffled, Athos hugged the man back, feeling his lanky frame heave with sobs and the tears soak through the scarf at his neck where d'Artagnan had his face buried.

They stood like that for a while, Aramis and Porthos each with a hand on the younger man's back as he sobbed into Athos' shoulder. When Athos felt d'Artagnan's tears subside a little, he gently pulled away, not letting go of the Gascon completely.

D'Artagnan's eyes were puffed and his nose was red. He was looking down, not meeting his eyes. Athos lifted his chin with a gloved finger and waited until he looked at him. "There's no shame in your tears, d'Artagnan. All of us have cried on each others shoulders too many times to count."

Porthos grinned, "Indeed lad, you can say it's almost a rite of passage."

"You can't join in completely until you've cried on of our shoulders." Aramis piped up.

"Bled on one of us..."

"Gone to sleep against and drooled upon another one…"

"Or puked all over us."

Aramis glared at Porthos at the last one, "That isn't happening again, you hear that?"

"It was only _a little_!" Porthos defended. "I had been _poisoned_!"

Athos cleared his throat loudly. "What these gentlemen are trying to say is that we're here for you. No matter what you need us for. We'll always be right here."

D'Artagnan stared at him. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he felt the deep ache in his chest left by the death of his father, ease a little. Maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be alright.

A week later when Treville's spies informed him of several stolen barrels of gunpowder stolen by some cum bag named Vadim who was languishing in prison, d'Artagnan volunteered to allow himself to be captured so that he could get the information they needed from Vadim. Athos had stared at him for a second and the Gascon had looked back, his eyes asking the older man to _trust him_.

"Can he do it?" Treville asked.

Athos turned to face the captain. "I believe he can."

* * *

_This story seems to have taken a life of its own. It's getting a little difficult as it has started to hit a little close to home. I will however continue it, don't worry. Any feedback is welcome and appreciated._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** _Time frame, anywhere between Episode two and eight. Which means d'Art isn't a musketeer_ _yet_.

* * *

They arrived just in time to find the bandits tying up the priest, a musket to his chest and looting the ornate paintings and decorations of the church. The town was a way from Paris, and it had been pure chance that they had decided to stop at the inn for the night, all of them sore and tired from riding hard throughout the day.

Aramis had asked if they could stop for a moment at the church in the town square and the others had silently complied. They would have been content to sit outside and wait for their comrade to finish expressing his gratitude for their latest brush with death but the shouts and yells had spurred them all into action and they had charged in, muskets and swords drawn.

It had been quick work to take down the seven bandits who had thought it would be a good idea to hit the local church and loot God's home. None of them had been expecting four well trained, heavily armed men to burst in to defend God's house.

Porthos shot the first man, while Athos made quick work of slashing through another two with his sword. Aramis took down a fourth thug but before d'Artagnan could make a move, the biggest of all the bandits had a knife at the Father's throat. "One step forward boy and the _prêtre _dies."

D'Artagnan stopped advancing, and started circling the man instead. The thug moved to keep his eyes on the Gascon, his knife digging in the father's neck, drawing blood. D'Artagnan wanted to shoot his arm, or distract him by throwing something at him, but any jerky move by the thug could slice through the priest's jugular completely, killing him in an instance. He watched the man, weighing his options when a musket fired by Aramis cut the rope of the chandelier over the bandit's head and it started falling.

The thug lunged sideways, and d'Artagnan moved, quick as lightening, just in time to get the shocked elderly father out of the way too as the chandelier came crashing down. In another swift move, he turned his body on the ground and fired at the man, who had been getting up and reaching for his sword. He crumpled to the floor.

Heaving a sigh of relief, d'Artagnan got to his feet, helping the priest up and looking him over for injuries. The man was visibly shaken and Aramis appeared at d'Artagnan's side, taking his elbow and helping him to a nearby pew.

"Are you hurt, father?" Aramis asked, kneeling before the man.

The Father shook his head. "No, no. I'm fine." He looked around at the dead bandits lying around and crossed himself before murmuring a prayer for their souls. Athos took the time to check each man for any signs of life and satisfied at having completed his job, he along with Porthos started getting all the bodies together. D'Artagnan walked over to where the holy water was kept and getting some in his empty flask, went over to hand it to the father.

The priest took it from him with a grateful look and drank deeply before returning it back. D'Artagnan was about to move away when he caught his sleeve. "Thank you for saving my life. I would have died today had you not gotten me out of the way. May God bless you son."

Aramis, who had been kneeling in front of the priest, stifled a groan, expecting the stiffening of d'Artagnan's shoulder and the abrupt manner in which he shook off the father's hand. He turned, and walked away, straight out of the large wooden doors. The priest looked at Aramis, confused. "Did I say something wrong?"

Aramis shook his head and sighed. "No _prêtre, _it wasn't you. Our friend has recently lost his father. His wounds are fresh still and he gets upset on being called son."

The father nodded, sympathy etched on his face. "Convey my apologies then. I would go after him but I'm afraid I don't have the strength just yet. All of us have to return to our Maker one day, death is inevitable. But that does not mean it does not still hurt for those left behind. I will pray for him to find peace."

Aramis bowed his head in respect before replying, "You and me both father." He stood up, intending on going to talk to d'Artagnan but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Let me. You go and help Athos," Porthos said.

Aramis raised an eyebrow at the older man. "Are you sure?"

Porthos nodded and Aramis relented after a moment's thought moving to help Athos with the dead bodies instead.

Porthos made his way outside.

D'Artagnan stood in the middle of the courtyard, his back to the church, his arms folded in front of him, hugging himself to keep warm against the chilly breeze. Porthos walked over and stopped besides him. They stood in silence for a while.

"I've been called a lot of things in my life, you know?" Porthos said, after a while and d'Artagnan turned slightly towards him. "Growing up a bastard child with no name or family, you hear yourself called so many things that after a while, they stop mattering."

Porthos paused for a moment, but d'Artagnan remained silent. "I learned not to pay attention. Then one day when I was sixteen, I was running in a street when I bumped into an older man and fell flat on my ass. He picked me up and said, 'careful where you're going son.' It was the first time someone had called me _that_. It was like something inside me flipped. I got so angry that all I could see was red. I punched him. I hit him so hard, he went sprawling on the ground. He was a lot bigger than I was then, and I thought that I was done for. But then he smiled, told me he was a musketeer and that I had a mean right hook. He said that if I came to the Musketeer's garrison, I could receive training and if I proved myself I could become one of them. I followed him and since then I've never looked back. Even now he is the only man I would allow to call me son."

D'Artagnan stared at the older man. He had to swallow several times to make sure his voice wouldn't break before speaking. "Who was he?"

"The captain."

D'Artagnan nodded, he had expected that, "He's like a father to all of you isn't he?"

Porthos smiled. "He could be for you too, if you allow it."

D'Artagnan shook his head and looked away. "Every time I hear the word, it's a reminder of what I've lost… What I'll never have again." The wistfulness of his tone stirred a familiar ache in Porthos. "And to hear the priest say it, it just…"

He looked at Porthos and the older man was not surprised to see the tears in the lad's eyes. "Why did God have to take _him_ away? He was the only family I had! There are so many men who deserve to die, murderer, bandits, rapists, and God had to kill my father? He was the best man I knew and the way he died… he did not deserve _that_." His voice broke and the tears fell down his cheeks. "I find myself wishing sometimes that it _had_ been Athos who had killed him. Then at least he would have died at the hands of an honorable man, and I…"

Porthos moved until he was standing right in front of the Gascon. He laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Hush, you don't mean that. One thing I've learnt, there's no honor in death. It is how a man spend his life that matters, that makes a difference. Your father remains alive inside of you. Every decision you make based on the morals he taught you, every time you remember something he said, every time you think of him, you honor his life. Don't let the memory of his life be tainted by his death."

D'Artagnan looked at him for a long moment, searching for something in his eyes. Porthos stared back. D'Artagnan must have found what he was looking for because his eyes filled with fresh tears but he smiled. "I… God, _thank you_."

Porthos snorted before pulling the young man into a one armed hug. "There's no need to thank me. Your father must have been a fine man to raise such a son."

He felt d'Artagnan nod his head. When he answered, his voice was muffled against Porthos' shoulder, but there was no mistaking the satisfied pride and happiness in his tone. "He was. The very best."

* * *

_Thoughts are welcome._


End file.
